" How interesting," Krek said testily. " The air is not fit for breathing. The metallic tang is much too unpleasant." The spider bounced away a few paces.
" But how did he generate the air elemental to get him safely to the ground?" Lan wondered out loud. " What sorcerers this world must have! Maybe we can find some to oppose Claybore and stop him before he grows too powerful."
" You dream, friend Lan Martak."
" What?"
" This incident indicates a war. The skull emblem on the side of the victor might hint that Claybore already rules this world."
The man looked at the blistered insignia on the side of the downed craft: a fist holding a dagger. What Krek said might be true.
" The only way of finding out is to ask."
They ran for the middle of the field where the air elemental still kicked up a choking column of dust. The pilot of the craft had collapsed in a pile in the center of the rotating windstorm. Lan ignored Krek' s pleas to give up this mad quest and find a nice, peaceful spot where the wind didn' t rip at furry legs, and pushed inward.
The pilot, more dead than alive, struggled for a moment.
" It' s all right," soothed Lan. " I' m not going to hurt you. Tell me what happened."
" The grey army. Th- their air arm is too strong. Too good."
" You fight the grey- clad soldiers?"
A single nod.
" How much of this world have they taken over?"
" Almost all," came the disheartening answer. " Only small bands of resistance remain. The howler, the one I flew, it was our last. We are grounded now."
" Howler? You mean the craft holding the fire elemental?"
Again a single nod. The man weakened visibly.
" Is Claybore here?"
Incomprehension.
" The leader of the grey- clad soldiers. Is he personally on this world? My friends and I fight him. We would join with your group. Tell me how we can do that." The man tensed, then sagged. " Tell me!" raged Lan. He realized the man had died. Ugly burns on the man' s left side had been the cause of death. The pain must have been excruciating. Claybore' s aerial craft had done too good a job at killing.
Lan allowed the man' s head to sink into the soft earth. He had made his last landing.
" We' ll stop Claybore," he promised the dead pilot. " We will." He rose and turned to Krek. The winds from the air elemental had died to a soft breeze, but that breeze had masked the sounds of approaching men. High overhead Claybore' s howler rocked back and forth in salute, then shrieked off, the captive elemental protesting mightily at the exertion.
Circling Lan were twenty grey- clad soldiers. Krek had already been captured.
CHAPTER THREE
For a moment, Inyx and the soldiers stood staring at one another in disbelief. They hadn' t drawn their weapons, and she was too surprised to move. She recovered her wits first.
Diving, twisting, she succeeded in getting past the one closest to her. His powerful hands grabbed and caught the fabric of her tunic, but his grip and her determination to leave were stronger than the cloth. It ripped, leaving him holding only a swath of useless cloth. Boots scuffled in the dust and she heard the soldiers' growing confusion. She had a chance. As she ran for the shelter of the pine trees nearby, she pulled her sword.
" Who is she?" demanded one of the soldiers behind her.
" What difference does it make? We were ordered to stop anyone coming out of this cenotaph. So what if she doesn' t fit the description Silvain gave us? Get her!" The words convinced her that Claybore' s soldiers waited for Lan and Krek, not her. Claybore didn' t know she had been freed from the white limbo between worlds. As Inyx ran for cover, she debated the wisdom of trying to eliminate all the men around the grave. Something gnawed at the fringes of her mind and kept her from turning and challenging them.
She finally found a small hummock behind which to hide. Panting, she slowly controlled her racing heart and got herself under better control. Sword in hand, she waited. The soldiers blundered about in the dark until their leader finally called them back. For a few minutes, nothing happened, then light blazed forth.
One of the soldiers held aloft an iron cage. Trapped inside was a small demon, valiantly blazing and casting light in all directions. Whenever the light began to fade, the soldier holding the cage rapped the bars sharply with a stick.
" Don' t you dare turn off," warned the soldier. " You know what I' ll do to you,"
" Not the buckets of water," moaned the tiny demon. " Please, not that. They put me out for days!"
" Then give us more light!"
The demon obliged. Inyx got her first good look at the men in the band. There remained no doubt that these were more of Claybore' s troops. They wore the same cut of uniform, had the same arcane red sleeve markings indicating rank. Most of all their arrogance marked them. But what struck the woman as odd was the lack of weapons at their belts. None carried a sword, and only one or two had daggers. In place of the more familiar weapon rested small tubes. Inyx knew little about magic but guessed that those cylinders must be formidable, indeed, to replace a razor- sharp longsword.
Glancing around, she studied the lay of the land to get some idea of an escape route. The soldiers still milled about uncertainly. Their leader seemed tossed on the horns of a dilemma. A solitary woman had come through instead of a brown- haired man and a giant spider. Did this make her important to Claybore, or should the troops wait for their designated victims?
She didn' t give their captain time to decide. Moving as quietly as shadow across shadow, Inyx slipped deeper into the forest. The woman relished the feel of earth beneath her feet again, the invigorating scent of pine needles, the feel of sap sticking to her fingers as she lightly touched a rough tree trunk. She almost lost herself to sensation when she detected a small, plaintive cry for help.
Not believing her ears, Inyx moved even more cautiously. Behind, in the depths of the forest, she heard the grey- clad soldiers blundering about. They had little training for this type of tracking. She wondered at that, just as she wondered at their odd weapons.
" Help me, oh, please, some kind, generous Samaritan, help me!"
She edged around a large- boled tree and stared in disbelief into a small clearing. A metallic vessel of a type she' d never before seen rested in the center. The voice came not from the compartment in front but from the rear portion. In spite of her need for caution, Inyx found herself more curious than careful. She advanced.
" Who' s there?" came the immediate response, suspicious, terse. " Who is it?"
" My name is Inyx. Does that mean anything to you?" The woman figured that Claybore already knew her; giving her name now meant nothing. She had never believed in magics requiring a name to act.
" No, can' t say that it does. Will you release me? Those fiends! They' ve kept me in here for years. I mean, positively, for years."
" Where are you?" She looked around the oddity and finally scratched her head in bemusement. She had no idea at all what she' d found. Inyx poked the side of the hull with her sword. Definitely metal. A small door swung away to allow someone to enter the compartment, but why anyone desired that course was beyond her. Only a simple, uncomfortable wooden seat and a single stick protruding from the floor were visible in the tiny iron cell.
" In the back, of course."
She looked. To the rear of the craft was a door with an elaborate lock on it. Inyx had seen similar devices before. This not only mechanically barred entry, it magically barred exit. Whatever was trapped in the metal hull needed more than simple physical bonds.